


Invisible String

by fairytalesandfolklore



Series: Teen Wolf [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff with a little bit of angst, Knitting, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:00:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27934273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairytalesandfolklore/pseuds/fairytalesandfolklore
Summary: He tries to imagine Derek taking up knitting, and has to fight to suppress the fond little flutter that stirs inside his chest at the image of Derek with a half-finished scarf splayed across his lap, yarn wrapped around his stupidly big, strong hands as he works them in an intricate pattern, the two of them sitting side by side on the couch, watching movies and working on projects together; has to bite back a bout of giddy laughter at the idea of Derek talking shop about his favorite stitch patterns, wandering down craft store aisles with a mountain of brightly colored, kitten soft skeins clutched in his arms, arguing the merits of aluminum vs. bamboo, cotton vs. wool, with those big surly eyebrows of his, as Stiles strolls along beside him. It's so absurdly soft and domestic that Stiles can't contain the longing sigh that spills out of his mouth at the thought of it.
Relationships: Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Teen Wolf [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2083419
Comments: 20
Kudos: 201





	Invisible String

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This is a work of fan fiction inspired by _Teen Wolf_. Respective concepts, characters, and settings from the original source content belong to their creator(s). The title of this story was inspired by the song _Invisible String_ by Taylor Swift. No copyright infringement is intended.  
>   
>  **Author's Note #1:** I'm on a Sterek streak, listening to _Folklore_ on repeat, and currently in the process of knitting Christmas gifts for friends and family, so here, have a fluffy Sterek knitting fic ^_^  
>   
>  **Author's Note #2: whovianmuse → fairytalesandfolklore**

**• • •**

In the aftermath of the whole _possession by an ancient trickster demon_ thing, the one thing Stiles _doesn't_ expect to hear from his in-the-know therapist is that he should consider taking up a hobby — something crafty and creative — to occupy his time. He does his best to suppress a snort of laughter but it's a near miss, insisting that he just doesn't have the patience for it. 

_Just give it a try_ , she says, and that's how Stiles begrudgingly finds himself in front of his laptop, scrolling down a Buzzfeed list of _the top ten crafts guaranteed to reduce stress and anxiety_.

It goes about as well as he'd expected. 

His first (and last) attempt at baking nearly burns down the kitchen. 

Every surface of his bedroom turns into some kind of viral rainbow (no matter where he sits or what he touches, his hands, his hair, and the back of his jeans are _always_ covered) as he proceeds to drip paint everywhere _but_ the canvas. 

Origami ends in a mountain of the saddest looking swans the world has ever seen, crumpled up with varying octaves of frustrated sighs and volleyed into the trash bin with a fist pump and a victorious shout of _score one, Stilinski!_

He can't draw for shit, even his _stick figures_ have Scott and Lydia squinting like the worst game of Pictionary. 

He hasn't got a steady enough hand for calligraphy, and more often than not, the pen just ends up stuck between his teeth as he loses himself down a Sporcle rabbit hole. 

All of his short stories end up reading like police reports. 

He nearly impales his thumb on a needle when he tries out his mom's old sewing machine. 

His dad comes home one night with a barrage of complaints from the neighbors claiming there's a cult of angry cats terrorizing the neighborhood when Stiles attempts to learn how to play the cello.

He's about ready to give up when he turns the corner at the local craft store and ends up in an aisle filled with rows upon rows of brightly colored, plushy bundles of yarn. He glances at the display sample of a cozy looking hat, eyes darting to the bright blue wool-acrylic blend of thick, soft yarn right in front of him, and then back up toward the hat, wondering just how difficult it would be to make one of his own. Might be nice with the winter months coming up. 

He dithers for a moment before heaving a resigned sigh and grabbing a skein of the blue yarn, because _blue is just pretty_ , and a set of knitting needles in the recommended size, and brings them up to the register, rationalizing that at least if _this_ endeavor doesn't go well, all he'll be left with is tangled string, novelty chopsticks, and a wallet that's $11 lighter.

**• • •**

He picks it up surprisingly quickly. One week, a couple of YouTube tutorials, and a series of bookmarked Pinterest tabs detailing beginner projects, and he's already mastered garter, stockinette, and single rib stitch, and has about a dozen swatches scattered across his room. 

Even more surprising is how much he finds he genuinely enjoys it. Likes the fact that it keeps him calm, keeps him grounded. Gives his restless hands something to do, his racing mind something to focus on. Likes the fact that, once he gets the basic beginner stitches down, he can just zone out and get lost in the gentle clicking of the knitting needles, the rhythmic repetition of his hands working to create a new series of interlocking loops, a creative distraction to dive into whenever the guilt and panic of everything that's happened over the last couple of months threatens to overwhelm him.

His first official project is a bunny knit from a single stockinette square, seamed and stuffed with poly-fil, gifted to his therapist as a sort of _thank you_ for pushing him to try something new.

**• • •**

He finds his gaze drifting toward Derek late one night at a pack meeting, mapping out and lingering over all the worrying little details of his body language — the tense line of his shoulders, eyebrows set in a semi-permanent crease, lips pulled into a pensive frown, fingertips digging into the underside of the worn wooden table hard enough to leave indents — and finds himself wondering if Derek has got any secret stress-reducing hobbies, if maybe he could benefit from having a creative outlet the same way Stiles has been.

He tries to imagine Derek taking up knitting, and has to fight to suppress the fond little flutter that stirs inside his chest at the image of Derek with a half-finished scarf splayed across his lap, yarn wrapped around his stupidly big, strong hands as he works them in an intricate pattern, the two of them sitting side by side on the couch, watching movies and working on projects together; has to bite back a bout of giddy laughter at the idea of Derek talking shop about his favorite stitch patterns, wandering down craft store aisles with a mountain of brightly colored, kitten soft skeins clutched in his arms, arguing the merits of aluminum vs. bamboo, cotton vs. wool, with those big surly eyebrows of his, as Stiles strolls along beside him. It's so absurdly _soft_ and domestic that Stiles can't contain the longing sigh that spills out of his mouth at the thought of it.

Derek's eyes snap up in his direction, narrowing in equal parts curiosity and concern, and Stiles is so _fucked_ because there's no way Derek hadn't heard the little stutter in his heartbeat just now, hadn't caught him staring, open-mouthed and shameless, with this stupid overly fond lovesick expression on his face, when he was supposed to be paying attention to Scott's detailed report of his recent perimeter patrols, and taking notes on the newest potential _monster of the week_ he's apparently responsible for researching. 

And because his body is an absolute traitor, he can feel the telltale prickle of white hot heat creeping up the back of his neck and sprawling across his entire face like a goddamn sunburn, and _oh god_ , there's no way Derek isn't piecing it all together, no way he isn't going to figure it out, no way Stiles will be able to keep his stupid little crush of his a secret if he keeps this up.

He attempts to salvage the moment with what he _hopes_ is a friendly smile and a nonchalant nod, but judging by the way Derek's eyebrows hike high enough to get altitude sickness, it probably comes across as more of a flail and a manic grimace.

Which is just _so great_.

Yup. Fucking _nailed it._

**• • •**

And yeah, it probably wouldn't help the whole _pretending he's not secretly in love with a sourwolf_ thing if he were to randomly surprise Derek with a handmade knitted hat out of absolutely nowhere, but like — _look_ — the color combination of that super soft merino wool featured every single fleck of Derek's eyes down to the exact shade, which is just…yeah. Super pretty. So like, he couldn't just _not_ get it.

As is Stiles's luck, he can't even keep the hat _itself_ a secret, because a few days after the pack meeting, Derek comes swooping in through his bedroom window while he's right in the middle of a round of decreases, causing him to shriek bloody murder and drop half a row of stitches in the process.

He makes a floundering attempt to shove the half-finished hat underneath his pillow, but of course, Derek's reflexes are faster ( _motherfucking_ _werewolves_ ) and he snags it out of Stiles's hands before he's even made it halfway across the room, staring down at it intently, running his fingers across the delicate little interlocking arrows, a flicker of a smile threatening to break across his face as he looks up and fixes Stiles with a curious expression.

"New hobby?" he asks, his tone uncharacteristically light, and Stiles prepares himself for the inevitable onslaught of derisive comments and mockery, because apparently he can't just have this one nice thing.

"Yeah, yeah," Stiles sighs with a weary roll of his eyes. "Make fun of me all you want, but we'll see who's laughing when I single-handedly defeat the next _big bad_ with my killer dexterity and refined upper-body strength."

Derek's lips twist into a frown, brows creasing in frustration.

"I'm not making fun of you," he says solemnly, all traces of lighthearted banter vanishing as he takes a tentative step forward and places the set of circular needles into Stiles's hands with a measurable gentleness.

"Oh," Stiles says softly, all defensiveness rushing out of him on the next breath, awed by the fact that Derek looks genuinely _offended_ by the assumption that he would tease Stiles over something like this. "Okay, well… _good_. Because I'm actually really liking learning how to knit so far."

He holds Derek's gaze long enough to catch a thoughtful hum in response, and then he's stumbling backward into his rolly chair with all the grace of a mountain troll, breathing out a nerve-addled huff as he refocuses his attention on the project clutched in his hands. 

There's a soft creak of leather and bedsprings as Derek perches on the edge of Stiles's bed, watching with rapt interest as Stiles sets to work fixing the dropped stitches, mesmerized by the subtle flex of his forearms, the delicate twist of his long, nimble fingers as Stiles slips the little stitch marker from one needle to the other to start a new row. 

They sink into a companionable silence, the only sound the gentle _click_ of the knitting needles, the steady rise and fall of his focused, meditative breathing, peppered with the occasional murmured mantra of _knit one, purl one_ as Stiles sticks his tongue between his teeth, brow furrowed in concentration as he deciphers what type of stitch he's supposed to make next.

"So, what made you decide to take up knitting?" Derek's voice rings out across the room, head tilted to the side as Stiles produces a thick blunt-tipped needle and begins threading the working yarn through the last few live stitches of the crown.

"Well," Stiles sighs, tension coiling in his shoulders as he struggles to split his concentration. Because _this_ is the most crucial part. Mess this part up and the whole thing unravels. "It started out as a suggestion from my therapist, actually. She figured I needed something — some nice, simple, _normal_ thing — to occupy my time, help take my mind off things…something that isn't just endless research and round-the-clock panic attacks over the supernatural _nightmare_ my life has become ever since—"

There's a sharp intake of breath and a soft, barely audible noise like a wounded animal, and Stiles glances up to find Derek staring a hard line into the floor, looking crestfallen.

"Hey," Stiles says consolingly, offering Derek an apologetic smile, and quickly amending. "Present company excluded, of course."

Derek huffs out a laugh and rolls his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders eases considerably.

"So I tried out a bunch of stuff, which I totally sucked at, by the way," Stiles continues, pulling the working yarn taut to close the opening at the top of the hat. "Everything from baking, to painting, to sewing, to trying to learn how to play an instrument — Dad practically had to _beg_ me to return the cello I rented out from the school — before I just kind of accidentally stumbled across knitting…which, it turns out, I'm actually pretty good at."

"I like it," Stiles adds after a moment's pause. "I like that it's both relaxing _and_ productive. I like working with my hands, being able to make things."

"I like…" he trails off, throat suddenly tight as he fights off the familiar sting in the corners of his eyes. "I like the fact that — after everything that's happened — I still have the ability to create beautiful things."

His fingers tremble as he works to weave the yarn tail through the last column of stitches, and he has to pause to catch his breath. He chances a glance over at Derek, and is struck with a low swooping sensation in the pit of his stomach at the sight of him staring down at his open palms with an intense expression on his face, so achingly familiar that Stiles _knows_ , without a shadow of a doubt, what he must be thinking in that moment — that the two of them share something no one else in the pack will ever truly be able to understand, a twisted brand of _folie à deux_ — that every time they look down at their own hands, they're seeing the same thing: _the sharp skewer of a set of claws; the slow twist of a sword; phantom blood clinging to such delicate things made into weapons against their will._

The finished hat lands in Derek's hands a minute later, effectively snapping him out of his downward spiral. He blinks down at it a few times, looking utterly bewildered, before his gaze flickers back up toward Stiles, eyebrows arched in question.

"Here's your hat," Stiles says with a half-hearted attempt at nonchalance, opting for playful banter in the hope that it'll ease some of the tension. "I would've finished it sooner, but some asshole snuck in through my window and scared me so bad I dropped half the stitches."

He expects a smirk, a sarcastic quip, a long-suffering sigh followed by a theatrical eye-roll in response. What he _doesn't_ expect is the vulnerable quiver in Derek's lower lip as he fixes Stiles with a stunned expression, eyebrows pulled together in a way that makes Stiles's heart physically _clench_ inside his chest, and says, in the _softest_ voice Stiles has ever heard, "You made this for me?"

"Well, yeah," Stiles says as he ducks his head to attack a phantom itch on the back of his neck, heat rising in the hollows of his cheekbones. "It — you know — it matches your eyes, or whatever."

Derek stares at him for a moment longer before his gaze drifts back down to the little hat woven with all the colors of the forest, cradling it in his hands like it's the most precious thing in the world.

**• • •**

The following evening, Derek shows up wearing the hat Stiles made him, a tightly-wound ball of yarn and a set of knitting needles clutched in his hands as he tentatively holds them out to Stiles like a peace offering, and says, "Teach me?"

And yeah, maybe Stiles's heart does that same little flutter on a much grander scale when, several months down the line, the two of them exchange Christmas gifts, only to realize they've knitted each other matching scarves.

**• • •**


End file.
